Lack of a Moon

Lack of a Moon

by

M.L. Bushman

Lack of a Moon© copyright 2014 by M.L. Bushman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—including, but not limited to, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, audio or video—without express written consent by the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN:9781934340073

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Dedicated to every victim of domestic abuse--may you find the strength to survive

CHAPTER ONE

The keys crashed the floorboard.

Frantically, Kyle Stephens swiped the rubber mat until her fingers struck cold metal. Motor purring like a pampered cat, she flicked on the headlights.

Terror snatched the scream from her throat.

Jack Peterson, not ten feet from the front bumper, a smirk on his pallid face. The muzzle of the gun stared like a soulless eye.

Get out of the fucking car, he yelled.

Kyle jammed the gas, popped the clutch, the Nova lunged. A shot rang out on his dive out of sight. She stomped the brake to strike reverse and gravel peppered the undercarriage the length of the drive. The sudden stop, the front end slide, slung her feet from the pedals and stalled the car.

Fresh adrenaline throttled her panic. Footfalls in gravel, the bark of the gun. She hammered the clutch, twisted the key; the motor thundered to life. Back glass exploded at a sharp report. Wheels spinning, rear end swaying, the car inched forward.

Come on, come on, she cried and ducked when the gun sounded, a bullet pierced the padded dash. Clawing tires all at once found purchase and launched the car.

The shouts, gunshots, lost to rushing air, her heartbeat pummeling her ears.

When did he get out? How? Why had no one called?

The Nova hurtled the dirt road to town, Kyle blinking away tears. She gave a second's thought to calling the law, but what could they do, save take a report and send her home. Alone. Her nearest neighbor a mile away, how was she to sleep, to live, to breathe? She'd lived enough of a nightmare already these past few months, every night, a nightmare that had finally come true. She didn't even own a gun, or know how to use one.

Could she really kill him, or anyone, if her life depended on it?

She white-knuckled the steering wheel, the dangers of loose cows and wayward deer forgotten the instant high beams stalked the mirrors like the eyes of a distant predator. A quarter mile of pavement to a stop sign she ignored, slowing just enough to skid a left onto the deserted highway.

US highway 18 fed the small restaurant and gas station just enough business to stay open overnight, the parking lot an oasis of light.

But what if history repeated itself? She might not be so lucky next time. Did she really need this job? And what of her co-workers, any one of which might wind up hurt or dead? Her reasons for staying--so logical, reasonable when the man was behind bars--seemed indefensible, almost selfish now.

Live until you die, Kyle.

So her late grandmother had said, at least a thousand times.

Fifteen miles to the state line and South Dakota would be in the past.

2

Brandon Hearst straddled his usual stool at the Bar, the sole business, and only building, on a corner of a rural crossroad some twenty miles west of Lusk. The barrel-chested bartender set beer after long-necked beer before him in honor of his thirtieth birthday.

The smoke of a lone cigar spiced the odors of stale beer and cigarettes. Dusty white globes cast soft light the length of the oak bar top, a restored relic of Wyoming's rough and ready past. Windowless shiplap walls sported a variety of beer signs, some in vivid neon. Boot heels clunked hardwood floors sprinkled with sawdust to accommodate the frequent spills. A copper cowbell jangled tinted glass whenever the front door opened and closed.

You know I can't drink all this, fellas, Brandon said to the cowboys crowding around. Gonna have to help me here or I'll never get home.

His cousin and best friend since short pants perched on the bar stool beside him.

Aw, come on, Bran. Jason Hearst's tanned face lit with a smile, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Get too drunk, you can always go by that Conway gal, sack out at her place. I'm sure she'd be glad to take a firm hold and get you up in the morning.

Won't be visiting no Janet Conway. And she won't be taking no firm holds on me neither, son, so climb your mind out of that gutter. Like 'em lean enough to share the bed, for gawd's sake.

Laughter rippled throughout the large room.

You saying she ain't lean enough? Jason said.

If she split herself in two, Brandon said, neither one of 'em would be lean enough.

One of the boys muttered, Gawd, Bran, the laughter erupted again.

Brandon glanced about familiar faces. Ain't lying, am I, fellas?

Grinning men shook their heads, traded winks and shrugs.

Jason fished a round tin from his back pocket. Gotta quit leading her on then.

And just how is it I do that? Brandon said.

Keep saying hello when you see her.

Well, what's a fella supposed to do when he runs into someone he's knowed all his life?

Jason tucked a fat pinch of tobacco between cheek and gum, then snapped the round container closed. Sure would give that gal the thrill of a lifetime if you stopped by, not to mention giving all of us something to talk about.

There you go, Bran, one of the men behind him said. Something new to discuss besides the price of cattle and the weather.

Heads nodded, hats bobbed to murmurs of agreement.

Brandon grinned. Can't do it, fellas. Grandma's expecting me home at a decent hour and tomorrow I start putting up that hay I been baling for the last three weeks.

Jason helped himself to one of Brandon's fresh beers. Better get while the getting's good, boys, he said, spreading his grin to all sides. This fella here is ded-i-cated.

The thirsty crowd made short work of the sweating bottles. An off-key chorus of Happy Birthday and some wandered off to the pool table, others claiming a chair at one of the cocktail tables or settling on an empty stool. Someone dumped a quarter in the juke box and Hank Williams Jr. took the bar to a Country State of Mind.

Brandon fished the cigarettes from the pocket of his white shirt.

Well, you ain't getting married any time soon then, Jason said.

Marry, hell, Brandon said. I'd settle for getting laid on a regular basis.

There's always Jan--.

Gawd, would you just lay off that, son? In a thought, he hunched his shoulders, wrinkled his nose, and said, Damn.

What?

Just got a mental picture of that gal naked.

Ewww, gawd. Jason whipped off his black Stetson and batted Brandon across the shoulder. "What'd you go do that for? Gonna take a few beers now to get that out of my mind." He raked his dark brown hair with his fingers, then clapped the hat back on his head.

Brandon laughed and got to his feet. Any excuse'll do. He drained his beer, plunked the empty on the bar, and tamped out his cigarette. Just thought I'd give you one before I go.

A nod to Robbie the bartender and Brandon stepped outside. A car zipped under the lone street light, breezed the four-way stop and veered onto the dirt road for home. The motor climbed to a whine, taillights topped the hill, then disappeared.

Brandon sauntered across the graveled lot to his white Ford truck.

3

Static crackled from the speakers and after repeated attempts to find a station, Kyle snapped off the radio. The drone of the engine, a steady stream of warm air through the broken back glass accompanied her across the state line.

Why hadn't Jack shot her outright, on her run from the house to the car? Because he wanted more, wanted to make her suffer before he finally...at least she'd fought back this time.

In less than an hour, she made the small town of Lusk, Wyoming. A right turn at the stoplight put her on the two-lane shortcut to Interstate 25 and, ultimately, Cheyenne.

Good place to start over, big enough for anonymity and work at a decent cost of living. Far better than overgrown Denver, where she'd first met, and later moved in with, Jack.

Twin pinpoints of light in the mirrors she tried to ignore. Countless times since leaving the restaurant parking lot, the approach of any vehicle, coming or going, had prompted her hackles to rise. But the fear proved groundless every time. Road signs whipped by, meaningless in her state of mind, while a rising apprehension slowly squeezed air from her lungs.

The headlights closed over ten miles, then at a flash of high beams, she eased up on the accelerator to let the vehicle pass.

A glimpse of tan and she locked the brakes. A gunshot, the Nova screeched to a halt, the pickup barreling past. Brake lights glowed crimson ahead, then backup lights.

Her car chugged at idle, burnt rubber tainting the air. No driveway or turn about, ditches too steep, a glance to the right brought her foot down on the gas, tires squealing through the sharp turn.

Evergreens lined the narrow blacktop. Her gaze flitted between dark mirrors and the two-lane road, her heart a bass drum hammering her ribs. Forest thinned to fence posts, a single light shining like a beacon ahead. Kyle sped past a lone building on the corner, breezed the four-way stop.

She angled the Nova onto the first dirt road presenting itself and accelerated for parts unknown. Over the top of an incline, she rounded a sweeping left curve into a rollercoaster of dips and rises for miles without light in any direction. Unexpectedly, the motor coughed, hummed, hiccupped, and smoothed out.

A glimpse of the gas gauge, she cursed her thoughtlessness. The needle shivered below empty. The engine spluttered, thrummed, and died.

Kyle eased the car to the right and coasted to a stop. She grabbed the keys from the ignition, snatched her purse and flung the door open to a dense black void, the nearest fence post difficult to discern.

Stars alone couldn't compensate for the lack of a moon.

Light blinked in the distance. Trepidation prickled her spine. Her throat thickened, lower lip trembled. She looked down to the bright white uniform that would make her a sitting duck, especially on a night like this.

Kyle hugged her bag to her chest and bowed her head to sob.

4

Brandon noted the South Dakota plate and slowed to a stop beside the Chevy, the shattered back window of some concern. He leaned across the cab to roll down the passenger window.

Need some help there?

A girl in white streaked to the truck, before the car door had time to slam behind her.

Oh, god, she said breathlessly. Please…I…

Get in.

He reached for the handle, which she jerked from his hand. The interior light too briefly shined on long, slim legs, a shapely figure, her tear-streaked face on her climb inside.

Having trouble there? he asked.

I…I ran out of gas. She dug in her black bag and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Mind if I smoke?

Brandon patted his shirt pocket. Got some right here. He waited a moment, staring down the dark road to avoid staring at her, then said, You don't mind me saying, ma'am, ain't no gas stations down this road.

She shook a cigarette to her lap with a trembling hand. There's a guy after me.

Brandon whipped out his lighter and presented her the flame, glimpsed her pretty face, fine high cheekbones under wide eyes. A flash of light in the side mirrors sent her ducking to the seat beside him.

He'll kill me.

Who? he said.

Jack, she whispered.

Avoiding the larger questions of who this Jack was or why he might want to kill her, Brandon said, Aw, that's probably just one of my cousins coming home from the bar.

Shot at me tonight, she murmured, as if she hadn't heard him.

Like to meet this fella, Brandon decided. Gotta be dumber than a cow.

The headlights grew brighter in the mirrors.

Help me, please, she whispered. Please. He's got a gun, he'll--

Give me your cigarette then, he said, uncertain if any real threat existed, and get down on the floorboard.

She almost whimpered her gratitude, handing him the smoke, and quickly slid down off the seat.

Brandon killed the dash lights and reached between his legs for the .45 he kept under the seat. A pickup slowed to a stop beside him, a two-tone tan GMC he'd never seen before, the passenger window wide open.

Evening, Brandon said.

You seen the driver of that car? the stranger asked, features impossible to discern. No dash lights in his truck either.

Don't recollect meeting you before. Where you fro--?

I'm looking for the girl driving that car.

Brandon cocked his head, irritated now. Believe you said that once already. She your wife?

A heavy sigh prevailed over the idle of both engines. Fuck the twenty questions. Have you seen her or not?

Thoroughly rankled now, Brandon tightened his grip on the gun in his lap, took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. Ain't seen anybody. Just got here myself.

The man paused, then said, I'll just take a look around.

Brandon crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. Could lend you a hand. Day my horse grows four extra legs.

Gears clashed and the man said, No thanks. I'll find her. You can count on it, dude.

Dude? Brandon scowled. Don't think I caught your name there, Jack.

The girl clutched his boot top, and after a long stare by the driver, the pickup sidled past.

Brandon stifled an impulse to shoot out a rear tire. No sense starting a fight on his birthday, not with a pretty gal at his feet.

Don't get up yet, he said quietly. A glance raised the possibility of a smile on her face. Hard to tell, dark as it was, but he grinned anyway, just in case.

A searchlight flared on the driver's side of the GMC and swept barbed-wire fences and hay fields. Grazing antelope raised their heads, eyes glittering like diamonds.

Brandon yanked the transmission into drive and idled down the road. He braked when the GMC abruptly u-turned. Headlights switched to bright, he blinked, and that spotlight smacked him square in the eyes. The offending pickup sped past.

Just plain rude there. Like calling a fella a liar almost.

Well, you did lie, his inner voice said.

Think I done the wrong thing?

Hell, no.

Taillights turned to small red dots and vanished from the rear and side mirrors.

You can get up now, he said, switching on the dash lights. She scrambled into the passenger seat, wriggling to straighten her uniform.

Unfriendly fella there. Brandon checked the black rearview mirror and then asked her name, introducing himself right after, thinking Kyle a strange name for such a beautiful girl.

Nice…nice to meet you, she said weakly.

He tucked the gun back under his seat. So, what's the deal here?

Kyle studied her hands, folded in her lap. I…I broke up with him four months ago. Couldn't take it anymore.

Couldn't take what? His stinking attitude?

When she didn't answer, Brandon shifted in his seat to get a better look at her, but she never looked away from her hands.

I thought I loved him, she said, and he wondered if she wasn't making excuses. He was nice at first. She swallowed hard, her gaze locked on her interlaced fingers. Then he changed.

Well, maybe you should've left right then.

I was working on that, she said, finally raising her head to glance his way, then stare straight ahead. Got a job as a waitress. Tears started down her cheeks and he regretted the off-the-cuff remark. She leaned over for her bag on the floorboard, out came a ragged Kleenex she used to dab her eyes and nose. I told him I was leaving and he came after me at the restaurant. Man in the parking lot called the cops. That's how come I'm still alive.

She lifted a forearm to show him red stripes of healing scar tissue. He cut me pretty good.

The sight of her injuries further fouled Brandon's mood. Bastard's probably got no dick, he muttered. Her giggle caught him off guard.

How'd you know? she asked.

Just what my grandma says about them kind.

Your grandma talks like that?

All the time.

One of those tough old ladies, I bet. My grandma was tough, too, but she never talked that way.

Well, my granddaddy died breaking a horse, left my grandma the ranch and three little boys. She had to cowboy up or lose it all. She cowboyed up. After a short pause, Brandon asked, Why ain't this asshole in jail then?

He was, but he must've bonded out, she said. I don't see how though. Or why no one bothered to call.

Who'd you think was going to call? Brandon asked.

The state's attorney maybe or the county sheriff. Kyle shrugged, her gaze directed at the floorboard. Guess I'm just not that important.

Brandon opened his mouth to object, but his inner voice said, Ain't you gonna take her home?

Got somewhere to go? Brandon asked.

I was headed to Cheyenne, but--.

Shit, you come home with me then. Grandma's probably wondering where the hell I am, if she's still awake.

You sure you want to get involved?

Already am. Besides, where you gonna go this time of night? Must be close to one in the morning. Ain't no safer place to take you and I sure as hell ain't leaving you here.

Kyle's hand on his arm sparked a tingle to his innards.

You sure it's no trouble? she asked.

Not right now.

Brandon glanced occasionally at Kyle on the drive home, to admire her pretty face, maybe ease her fears if need be, slowly impressed by her outright calm. He squinted in the effort to recall the word his grandmother used.

Pluck. Gal's got pluck.

Brandon met her umpteenth glimpse with his best grin. She turned her head and smiled right back.

Pluck--and spirit?

Shit, she just might be worth getting to know.

5

Kyle stole one peek after another at Brandon, anxious to deter that flicker of hope gaining ground in her heart. Especially after he grinned right at her.

Had to be some kind of ladies man. Had the looks all right, not to mention an easy confidence that drew her like a magnet. Probably ten different girls scattered about the countryside entertaining fantasies about him while he milked his bachelorhood for all it was worth.

Live until you die, Kyle; that grandmotherly whisper challenged the doubt. Another furtive glance his way brought more questions than answers.

What about the gun under the seat? Was he serious or all show?

She stiffened her back against a chill apprehension. Jack wouldn't quit, she knew that much now, not until she was dead or he was stopped by a force beyond his control.

Maybe a man like...she glimpsed Brandon yet again, his white hat and shirt stark, almost glowing in contrast to the blackest night.

He'd put a gun in his lap in her defense, chancing possible injury or death for someone he didn't even know. Maybe he was a ladies man, a first-class user even, but there had to be good in him somewhere. Not that she was any great judge of character. After all, look at the bastard she'd allowed to share her bed.

A slowing of the truck at a huge mailbox, a right turn, and sturdy fence posts whizzed by on either side of a wide caliche drive. Brandon parked at lawn's edge of a ranch-style brick home. A short sidewalk to a concrete slab porch lit by a sconce imitating an antique wrought-iron lantern.

He hustled her inside to a darkened living room, past a large dining room and kitchen to a hallway where a cartoonish plastic cow happy danced a soft glow from an outlet above the baseboard. Kyle tiptoed behind him, feeling all of sixteen, running right into his backside when a gravel-tough female voice halted his advance.

Bran? That you?

He spun around to Kyle, a hand-in-the-cookie-jar frown on his face, and said, Yes, ma'am.

A tall woman in a light-colored bathrobe emerged from a doorway on the right, short gray curls massed about her head.

Who you got there? she asked.

Brandon gently prodded Kyle forward, introducing her, then said, This here's my grandma, Lillian Hearst.

The old woman smiled and offered her hand, her grip unexpectedly firm.

Kyle, is it? she said. Unusual name.

Thank you. Nice to meet you.

Same here. Lillian eyed Kyle's smudged uniform. You get drug through the mud?

No, ma'am. I…I--.

Rode the floorboard of my truck a mile or so. Brandon smirked at Lillian's eagle-eyed scrutiny.

Bran, what you been up to?

Saved her from a fella. Chin jutted, he slapped a hand to his chest. Done me a good deed.

Kyle's giggle garnered a gaze so honest, so direct-to-the-soul, she goose pimpled at meeting his eyes.

That about right, ain't it? he asked.

She barely recovered in time to nod.

Lillian crossed her arms. What fella?

Dread wrenched Kyle's stomach. My ex-boyfriend.

Ain't very friendly, Brandon said. Called me a dude.

Dude, huh? Grandmother and grandson traded scowls, then Lillian said to Kyle, Does he look like a dude to you?

Uh, no, ma'am, she replied. Not one bit like a dude, she wanted to add. Not even, not with those looks and that grin--.

One of them abuser types, Lillian said, seemingly out of the blue.

Who?

The old woman grinned, narrowed her eyes a bit, and said, Your ex.

Brandon squinted as if confused and Kyle said, Yes, ma'am. That's exactly what he is.

Lillian turned to her bedroom, a hand on the doorknob. Well, you two get some sleep. We'll sort it all out come morning.

Sort what out, Kyle wondered, until Brandon hustled her to the end of the hall.

This here's my room, he said, but you can have it. He pushed the door open and flipped on the light. I'll take a bed in one of the others.

I don't want to put you out, she said, her stomach in knots.

You'll be safe here. No one in these parts would mess with a Hearst.

Couldn't we just...talk a while? I don't think I can sleep right away.

Mild surprise filtered into his warm brown eyes. Awful late now, you know.

Your grandma have any objection?

Brandon chuckled and nudged her into the room, then swiftly shut the door.

Hell, my grandma's seen and done more than any woman I know. She don't care what I do as long as I don't get hurt by it or hurt someone else.

Kyle sat down at the foot of his double bed and rested her purse in her lap. You've brought girls home before?

On occasion, he replied offhandedly, as though he didn't mind the question. Been a while though. He whisked the white cowboy hat from his head to the oak bureau against the wall opposite the bed, then riffled his wavy brown hair with both hands.

Hat flat, he said, flashing that killer grin. He dropped to a seat beside her, crossed a leg over the opposing knee, and grabbed his boot heel. Didn't expect this now.

What? Kyle said.

You, for starters. A short struggle, his foot slid free, the boot fell to the sand-colored carpet. It's my birthday…well, until midnight it was.

Your birthday?

Yep. He switched legs. Why I was late going home. Usually sound asleep by ten.

And if he hadn't come along when he did... She bit her lip to keep sudden tears at bay.

The other boot thudded the floor and Kyle touched his arm, the muscles like threaded steel beneath the white cotton sleeve.

I don't know what I would've done if--.

Forget it. Brandon patted her hand to a hike of his brows and stood up. Want a beer? Think we could both use one about now. At her nod, he pivoted on his heel with the grace of an athlete and left the room, pulling the door shut quietly behind him.

Kyle's gaze wandered over a walnut-brown desk and hard-back chair in a corner, beige curtains at the window